V&F Microfiction: Collision
Collaboration & Critique & Collision
“Collision” is the third and final installment of a series.
You may find the table of contents here.
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Artistic vigilance. His hand ached as he forced himself to loosen his grip on the brush. Steady, precision is everything. Each stroke would be deliberate and calculated. But still, it wasn't right. What was he missing?
Ahmad sat on a park bench in the heart of the city, surrounded by the serene beauty of a well-kept garden. The morning sun cast dappled shadows through the trees, and the distant hum of traffic mixed with the chirping of birds. Nearby, a pond reflected the sky, its surface rippling gently in the breeze. This place was a few blocks from home, yet it felt worlds away from the chaotic urban landscapes he usually painted.
There was this one line that nagged at him. It was where the foreground leaf occluded the pond in the background. It kept moving, and the water kept rippling, and the birds were never in one place long enough.
Fatima made it look so easy—she could capture the stillness and clarity of a moment without a single misplaced form. But then, Fatima's work always looked like how you imagined something might be, not how it really was. And maybe that was the difference.
"Every detail matters," he reminded himself, but the thought felt hollow. Perfection was relentless, and the world around him seemed determined to resist his efforts. But he couldn't give up. "Maybe it's the struggle that defines the work," he muttered, trying to believe it.
An hour he had been there and gotten nowhere. He scraped the paint away. Ahmad just couldn't feel the same connection that he did with his urban scenes. When everything had to be caught up in straight lines, he felt lost. That would be enough, for now. No time spent painting was wasted, after all. That’s what he told himself, at least. But his blank canvas told a different story.
Ahmad packed up his supplies, the canvas heavy and unwieldy under his arm. The waterfall, the shadows, the park—they all seemed to laugh at him. Why can't I capture this? he thought, frustration burning in his chest.
Emerging from the park, he walked past the brownstones and little shops, the usual sights barely registering. He thought the park would help him find some calm. Fat chance.
He made his way to a small café that always smelled like fresh coffee and pastries. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him as he entered, mingling with the aroma of baked goods.
"Morning, Ahmad," called out Sam, the friendly barista. "The usual?"
Ahmad forced a smile in return. "Morning, Sam. Yeah, the usual. How's it going?"
"Can't complain. Busy as ever. You know how it is," Sam replied, making Ahmad's coffee and bagel. "How about you? Trying something new today?"
"Yeah, thought painting in the park would clear my head. Didn't really work," Ahmad admitted, feeling the weight of the morning’s effort slip away.
Sam handed over a sesame bagel with cream cheese and a large black coffee. "Here you go, man. Hang in there. Sometimes a change of scenery isn't enough."
"Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it," Ahmad said, taking his order and finding a quiet corner to sit. The café was full, everyone wrapped up in their own morning rituals, unaware of his inner chaos.
As he settled into his seat, Ahmad reached into his pocket for his phone. It felt like a brick in his pocket. When he unlocked it, his heart skipped a beat. Thirty-seven missed calls from Fatima. The timestamp showed they were all within the last hour. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The last call had been twenty minutes ago.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath. "It's never good when I'm not there to catch the first one." Memories of college flooded back—waking up during finals week to a full voicemail inbox from Fatima. That sinking feeling, knowing he had missed something critical, and the subsequent fallout was never pretty.
His mind spun. What set her off this time? Was it bad news? Something he missed? If he hadn’t gone out, he would have seen the signs. He could almost hear her frantic voice, accusing him of abandoning her. Why didn’t I just stay home?
“Shit!” he called out loud, drawing startled looks from nearby patrons. He waved a sheepish apology at them, his face flushing with embarrassment.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself with a sip of coffee, but the liquid felt cold and bitter. His mind kept circling back to Fatima. He stared at his phone, debating whether to call her back right away or wait until he got home. The thought of hearing her voice, potentially filled with anger or distress or accusation, made him hesitate. He took another bite of his bagel, but his appetite was gone.
He needed to get home. Maybe it was nothing, but with Fatima, nothing was ever just nothing. The closer he got to his apartment, the faster his heart pounded. The city faded away. As he turned the corner onto his street, all he could think about was Fatima and whatever mess awaited him.
His canvas and supplies slipped from his grasp, crashing to the pavement. He barely registered the sound. All he could see was the twisted metal, the smashed glass.
"No, no, no," he muttered, rushing toward the wreck. His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the car, looking for any sign of Fatima. He yanked open the driver’s side door, but it was empty. He leaned in, searching for clues, anything to tell him what had happened.
He circled the car, checking each window, peering inside. Each step felt like an eternity. His mind raced with questions and fears. Was she hurt? Where did she go? Why didn’t she call me if something happened?
His eyes fell on the empty passenger seat and the crumpled front end. The car had been hers to borrow since hers was repossessed. He tried to piece together the scenario, but nothing made sense.
A man walked by, meticulously avoiding any glance at the wreck or at Ahmad. Desperation pushed him to speak.
"Did you see a woman get out of this car?"
The man paused, looked at Ahmad, then shrugged. He kept walking, avoiding eye contact. Ahmad watched him go, a feeling of helplessness washing over him.
Damn Brooklyn. Damn New Yorkers.
Ahmad pulled out his phone and dialed Fatima’s number, his hands trembling. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. It went to voicemail. "Fatima, where are you? Call me back, please," he said, his voice breaking. He ended the call and stared at the screen, hoping for an immediate response that didn't come.
He slumped down on the steps of his building, head in his hands. The weight of the situation pressed down on him. He felt paralyzed, unable to think clearly. Why didn’t I call her back sooner? He was always too late, always a step behind when it came to Fatima.
"Hey!"
The voice barely registered. Ahmad squinted at the wreckage of his Honda.
"Hey mister, you ever play Streets of Fury?"
Ahmad's gaze drifted across the street. A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, sat on the steps of a brownstone, hunched squinting over a handheld game console, holding it only inches from his face.
"What?" Ahmad's voice cracked.
"Streets of Fury. I unlocked the Mustang GT and it can yeet into a lit barrel roll. It's faster than the Camaro even but it doesn't handle as well in the rain. Gucci when the cops are chasing you though."
Ahmad gestured weakly at his mangled car. "My car..."
"Bro is that your car? It looks like the one I totaled in Streets of Fury last night! Except in the game, it exploded. Cars always explode in games."
The wrecked car, the building, the wrecked car again - Ahmad's head was spinning.
"Your car is super messed up, bro. I thought when it hit the streetlamp it would explode, but maybe since it's a Honda and not a Mustang GT… Low key basic."
The boy fell silent, absorbed in his game. Maybe the kid had seen something. “Hey kid, did you see what happened here?”
"Here? No cap it was lowkey bussin’! Last month a real Mustang GT drove past. It was getting chased by the cops. It didn't do a barrel roll though. It needs a ramp for that."
His scalp stung as Ahmad raked his fingers through his hair. God, why wouldn't this kid just answer him? "I need to find—”
"In Nitro Racers 3, I always trick out my rides with flame decals and neon underlights. Makes 'em look way faster. Your car could use some of that so it’s not so mid, might make it go fast enough to actually explode next time."
Ahmad bit back a curse. This was getting nowhere. "The person driving my car… Kid, this is important…"
"Brooo, speaking of important people, did you know they used real voice actors for Streets of Fury? No cap the guy who plays Rico Banderas sounds just like my math teacher! It gives shook!"
The fight drained out of Ahmad. What was the point? His car was trashed and Fatima could be anywhere.
The boy's thumbs paused over his game console. He glanced up, his expression shifting as he really looked at Ahmad for the first time. "Buildings in Streets of Fury are so low-vibrational. You can't even go inside most of them. In Zombie Parkour Simulator, you can only enter a building if you finish a mission.”
“Do you think her mission was to yeet your car into that light post?" The boy had finally glanced up from his game and was looking at Ahmad thoughtfully.
“Light post? Right, the lady who ran into the light post?”
"The lady, the lady who went skrrrrrrt right into the street light, bro. Is that how she got into the building?"
Fatima had gone into the building. Ahmad's eyes locked onto the entrance. Then he was off, taking the stairs two at a time.
"Hey!" the boy called after him. "When you find her, can you ask if she wants to try out the two-player mode in Streets of Fury? That drift was a serious vibe!"
But Ahmad was already inside and up the stairs.
“Sheesh. Lowkey ghosted…” the kid muttered to himself.
Ahmad bolted through the front door and took the stairs two at a time. His breath came in short, panicked bursts. He reached his apartment and flung the door open.
Fatima was there, sitting by the window. Her back was to him, her posture eerily still. She stared out at the street, her eyes fixed, like she was waiting for something. The scene outside reflected in her eyes, cold and distant.
He paused, catching his breath. The air in the room felt heavy, oppressive. He stepped closer, his voice trembling. "Fatima, what happened? Why is the car wrecked?"
She didn't turn to face him. Her voice was icy, detached. "You wrecked it, Ahmad. You left me no choice."
Ahmad’s frustration bubbled over. "What are you talking about? I wasn't even there!"
Fatima finally turned, her eyes blazing with fury. "You abandoned me. Again. You knew I needed the car, and you didn't answer my calls. What if something happened to me? Do you even care?"
"Of course, I care! But you can't just wreck the car and blame me for it!" His voice rose, echoing off the walls of the small apartment.
She stood up, her posture rigid, her face contorted with anger. "You always do this, Ahmad. You leave me to fend for myself, and when things go wrong, it's my fault? You never take responsibility. You're controlling, dishonest."
"That's not true, and you know it!" Ahmad's voice cracked, a mix of anger and desperation. "I can't be there every second of every day. You need to understand that!"
"Understand? Understand what? That my own brother can't be bothered to take care of me? That he'd rather run away and paint his pathetic pictures than deal with his own family?"
Ahmad tried to calm her, his voice softening. "Fatima, please, can we start over? I’m confused. What happened today?"
Fatima’s eyes narrowed. "You should be confused. I was at the Chelsea gallery today, and Serena asked me a question I couldn't answer. I needed you. But you weren't there! Did you get kidnapped? Did you change your number?"
"No, I didn't do those things!" Ahmad replied, trying to steady his voice.
"So you were just ignoring me? I was trying to help you!" Fatima’s voice grew louder. "I couldn't get in touch with you and now it's all ruined! I told Serena what a selfish asshole you are!"
Ahmad’s eyes widened. "You what?"
"I told her that you're selfish and it’s really my work anyway!"
"How... Fatima, why? Why would you do this?"
Fatima's fury intensified. "You're so wrapped up in your creative vision. You clearly don't want my help. " She grabbed a vase and hurled it towards the mural, smashing it on the floor.
"Fati, I don’t understand."
"If you didn't have me helping you, you wouldn't do anything! But no, I'm the bad guy! Well, here, let me help you with your creative essence! Since you said I never help you with it and just destroy it!" Her voice dripped with sarcasm and rage.
She picked up a can of yellow paint, throwing it across the mural. The bright color splattered over the carefully crafted design.
"Fatima, what are you doing? Stop!" Ahmad’s voice was filled with panic.
She spread her hands around the painting, smearing the paint chaotically. "Here Ahmad, is this expressionistic enough for you?"
Ahmad rushed forward, grabbing her wrist to stop her. She struggled against him, and in the tussle, she crumpled to the ground, burying her head in her hands.
Ahmad looked at her for a moment. She was suddenly so fragile. His sister was everything. Why was she treating him like this? What had he done? How could he get her back? He knelt down to her.
“Fatima, since mom and dad died you’ve always been there for me. You’ve always cared for me and I appreciate everything you’ve done. I—”
“I’ve been assaulted,” she replied.
“I’m sorry, Fati, I…”
“119 8th Street, suite 293. He wrecked the car and then he…”
Ahmad stood. “Fati, what are you…?”
“I’m ok, I locked myself in the bathroom. Just send someone, please.”
Ahmad turned and walked toward his kitchen. Everything was blurred into shades of color - nothing really came together in his mind. It was all abstract. He could see the brown shape that outlined the white of his window. He always felt better when the breeze would come in through the window. The city, he could breathe it in - the measured chaos.
He tugged at the window. Pulled and tugged and heaved. It was so heavy and he always tried to keep it open. It had taken he and Matt’s combined strength to open it last time. But now it wouldn’t budge.
Down below he could see his wrecked car. The gamer kid was talking to a police officer and pointing at his building.
Then all he could feel was the explosive pain in his chest. The years and years of pent up pressure that made him feel like he would explode. He was sitting, on the floor, and the tears came. They flowed and ran down his cheeks and he was guffawing sobs and blubbering through snot.
“Ahmi…”
Why did it always end up this way? Why was he so weak, so messed up? He always was hurting the people around him. The people he loved the most. He couldn’t even take care of his sister. He had told his father… before he died he had told him he would take care of his sister, and he couldn’t.
“Fati, I just can’t, I’m sorry…”
“Ahmi, it’s ok. Ahmi I’m here.” Fatima was hugging him close. He needed to feel that, to feel close. The feel like everything would be ok.
“I’m sorry Fati, I messed everything up and I’m so…”
“Shhh… It’s ok. I’ll take care of everything little brother. You didn’t do anything wrong. I hate seeing you struggle like this.”
“I just want you to be ok.”
“I know. You’re such a great brother. You just need me around to help you. It’s hard since mom and dad are gone. I’ll take care of everything, ok?”
And they sat there together. At some point the police came and Fatima spoke with them. But Ahmad barely registered.
“My brother, he’s an artist. I’m helping him get on his feet, but since our parents died…”
“Lady that’s twice in two days. First Chelsea, now here. Don’t make a habit of it.”
“Of course not, officer.”
Ahmad felt lucky to have a sister that cared about him, so much.
Ahmad stared at his coffee. Just black, today. The noise didn’t really get to him. It was fuzzy and distant.
“Yo, Ahmad!”
Someone was walking up. It was his friend, Matt.
“Whoa, friend. What happened to you? You look like you got hit by a bus.”
Ahmad looked around, then back to Matt. His sister would be back from the bathroom in a minute. Maybe Matt would be gone by then and she wouldn’t ask questions.
“Hey, I heard about your sister, man, at the gallery opening yesterday. She caused quite a scene. The police had to be called.”
Ahmad's eyes widened in shock. “What? I didn’t know...”
Matt pulled out a chair and sat down. "Yeah, it was pretty intense. She was yelling and accusing the gallery owner of sabotaging her. They had to escort her out."
Ahmad’s mind began to spin. “What exactly happened?”
“She was at the Blue Door gallery. Apparently, she got into an argument with Serena, the owner. Fatima was shouting about her work being sabotaged and then started blaming you. Said you were stealing her ideas and forcing her to do your paintings for you. Weird stuff, man. It got pretty heated.”
Ahmad felt a chill run down his spine. He replayed the events of the last three days in his mind: her sudden appearance, taking over his work, her stormy exit, then the barrage of missed calls, the wrecked car, calling the police. All the erratic behavior. The syllogism came together in a twisted kind of sense.
“She knew she was going to this show. She needed me to have a finished painting so she could talk about it,” Ahmad said, more to himself than to Matt. “But I wasn’t appreciative enough, and Serena wasn’t welcoming, and...”
She had spiraled. She was out of control. And so was he. How did he not see this before?
“How did it end?” Ahmad asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The police came and took her out of the gallery. She was still yelling when they escorted her out. It was bad, Ahmad. Really bad.”
Ahmad felt his chest tighten. He had been so focused on managing the immediate crises that he hadn't seen the bigger picture. But it all was starting to click into place. He felt that familiar tightness in his chest taking shape. It had always been there, but now he felt it.
The hospital room had been quiet, except for the air conditioning and the rhythmic beeping of the machines. Ahmad stood by his father's bed, holding his frail hand. His father's pain-filled and determined eyes, locked onto Ahmad's.
“Son,” his father’s voice was weak, but carried the gravity of the line of Pakistani patriarchs that preceded him. “You need to take care of your sister.”
Ahmad swallowed hard, tears brimming in his eyes. “Dad, I... I don’t know if I can.”
“You can. You have to,” his grip tightening for a brief moment. “She’s... she’s not like you. She needs help. You’ll be the man of the family now. Promise me, Ahmad.”
Ahmad’s chest tightened and pulling at his shoulders. They sat together for a moment.
Then the elder Al-Rashid was grimacing and arching his back. “Ahmad, please…” Ahmad gripped his hand while his father calmed down, the wave of pain passing him over. “Please.”
His father was so frail, so much smaller than the man he remembered. But his eyes were sharp, a deep well coming not just from him, but his entire family. The entire Ummah itself, peace-be-upon-them. “I promise, Dad. I’ll take care of her.”
Fatima was asleep in the corner of the room, finally exhausted after hours of crying and screaming and rage. “She’s the only family you have. Don’t let her fall apart.”
Ahmad squeezed his father’s hand, feeling the life slipping away from him. “I won’t, Dad. I promise.”
Fatima was spiraling out of control. It was too big for him. He wasn’t strong enough.
“I'm sorry, Dad. I don't know how to help her.”
Matt leaned in, concern etched on his face. "Hey man, are you sure you’re alright? Do you need a place to crash? My couch is always open if you need to get away for a bit."
Ahmad glanced towards the bathroom, his heart pounding. He saw that Fatima had stopped at the table of someone she knew, turned away from him.
“I think I need to take you up on that,” Ahmad said, the weight of the decision pressing on him. “I just... I need to get away.”
He could hear the distant sound of his sister laughing with her friend.
Matt nodded, a supportive smile on his face. "Anytime, man. You don’t have to go through this alone."
For a moment he watched her, and Ahmad felt a surge of anger and frustration bubbling up in his chest. How could she be so carefree after everything that had happened? After all the chaos of the day. He rubbed the heat away from his eyes.
“Hey Matt?” He knew he couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep being pulled into Fatima’s chaos. “How about now?”
Matt seemed surprised. "Now?"
“Yeah, I need to clear my head. I need to get away, right now.”
Matt thought for a moment. He glanced in Fatima’s direction. He checked his phone. Then placed a reassuring hand on Ahmad's shoulder. "Yeah, let's do it. Mi casa su casa, brother. Let’s get you out of here."
The decision felt like a small step toward reclaiming some control over his life, even if just for a little while.
Ahmad took a deep breath and stood up, leaving his phone on the table. Better he go silent for a bit. He could still hear Fatima’s laughter as he and Matt walked out of the coffee shop, fading behind them as they headed towards Matt’s place.
Whooo that was intense